


Sometimes

by semi_automatic



Category: Twenty One Pilots
Genre: Alexiad, Autism, Child Abuse, M/M, Medication, Peices, Schizophrenia, Summer, Therapy, This is technically a poem??, Tyler's pov, highschool
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-04-18
Updated: 2016-04-18
Packaged: 2018-06-03 02:29:12
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,228
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/6592924
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/semi_automatic/pseuds/semi_automatic
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>"Come here, it's alright." I squeeze my eyes shut, trying to feign safety. I can't figure out what color I am right now. "We'll get ice cream after this. It'll be better. Nobody will hit you. You're safe now." He squeezes me gently around the ribs. "Maybe we can get out of here soon. You can sleep at my house with your blanket. I won't leave. Come here. It's alright."</p>
            </blockquote>





	Sometimes

**Author's Note:**

> Just fyi- this is technically a poetic form called an alexiad, it's from Tyler's POV and the unnamed 'he' is Josh. Enjoy frens.

**1.**

Sometimes the world goes dark.  I’ve figured out that maybe it’s just me, because when I look at him he doesn’t seem to realize that it’s dark. He doesn’t seem to know why I’m panicking, why I grasp onto him. He questions me but it’s too dark to see his words in the air but I wish I could, I need more colors brought in. It’s too dark to breathe in here, it’s getting in my lungs. But occasionally if I squeeze my eyes tight enough it goes away and I am safe.

**2.**

If I squeeze my eyes tight enough I think I am safe. The world seems to be shut out around me and I convince myself of it. He isn’t here. If he was, maybe I’d really be safe. I cover my ears because it’s all too loud and they tell me I’m being dramatic as I try to hold myself together. I can't even make sense of colors and for once my mind is blank.

**3.**

I can't make sense of colors but my mind is not blank. He says I am jumping subjects. I told him that we should go pick flowers, and asked him if he knew why the window was so cold. 

"Why are you pressed against the window," he asked, "and how long have you been there?" 

"Since it started raining," I told him. When he wrinkled his nose I saw a strange shade of blue. 

"It's not raining."

"When can we get ice cream?"

**4.**

We were getting ice cream in a McDonald's drive through. Wind caressed my face and I switched from watching the pavement to watching the hair stick to his forehead. Saturday summer sun had us languid and adventurous. I wanted to go swimming but he wanted to ride horses, but since I couldn't do what he wanted and he couldn't do what I wanted, we settled on ice cream and sitting with our feet in the water. I felt good for once, and he asked if I had taken my meds. A sense of worry came over me because he could tell. He liked me like this. "Am I better?" I ask him.

**5.**

"Am I better?" I ask my therapist a week later. My knuckles are pink and I keep chewing the inside of my mouth. She looks at me steadily.

"Do you think you are?"

"I don't know myself," I say, and shift.  I pick at the inflamed skin of my knuckles and she frowns. 

"How did that happen?" she questions, leaning forward. Too much in my space. I tense up. She doesn't seem to care.

"I punched a wall."

**6.**

"I punched a kid," he says as I reach up and dab at the new earthquake in his lip. I had to hold him down to get him to let me fix the broken skin. He could move me, if he really wanted, but I'm a fighter, and he doesn't want me to get the same bruises he now sports. 

"Why?" I move his hand so that the icepack covers his left eye, where it swells purple-black like a deadly rose.

"He made fun of you and then tried to flirt with me."

"Please don't get into fights," I say, soft green words, looking down at my knees on either side of his legs. My hands buzz slightly as I try to stop the bleeding on his lip. He halts.

"I'm not violent," he whispers, eyes wide as he stares at me. "I promise. I promise."

"Please don't hit people."

**7.**

"Please don't hit me," I beg him, covering my face. He feels red-purple and I am shivering blue. The room is suddenly quiet asde from my own heartbeat and breathing. I don't move.

"I would never hit you, I would never, please don't think that, oh god. I'm so sorry, please forgive me for getting angry." He sounds like soft rain now, not crashing waves from a moment before. "I wasn't mad at you, I was mad that I lost my phone. Please don't be scared. Can I touch you?"

I'm absolutely terrified but I need someone to hold me together before I fall to dust. So I nod. His arms wrap around me like a weighted blanket and his lips against my hair are soft as he shushes me. He doesn't try to pull my hands away.

"You're safe now, you're safe."

**8.**

"I never feel safe anymore," I tell my therapist, at her office again. According to my mother, it had been fourteen days since my last vist, eleven days since Josh's fight, half a week since he yelled. Two days since my mother had taken away my medication. I twitch with a tan-yellow as I sit down. I answer with fly-like one-word answers. Her pen makes sharp noises and I learn that I hate her wooden desk.

Her eyes are too blue when she looks at me. "Have you been taking your meds every day?"

"Yes," I say, unable to pry my mother's tape from my lips. 

"Why do you not feel safe?"

I squeeze myself tightly. She frowns and writes something.

**9.**

I squeeze myself tightly. He smiles, writing carefully on my arm. 

"I'm so proud of you." A kiss. He's drawing a heart.

My smile falls when I realize I actually am failing him, he shouldn't be proud. Grey washes over.

"Are you okay?"

"Maybe."

**10.**

"Maybe you should just get better," suggests my mother. We're in the car and I already feel like I'm drowning. I don't like her and I don't like this car and I don't like driving at night. 

The thought infects my brain. Maybe I should. What if I did just get better? What if it's all my fault?

**11.**

"It's her fault," he says. We're in the bed in his house. I'm watching his fish. My hands had been shaking as I told him but now I'm too tired to feel anything but the tan of his walls.

"I'm tired," I tell him, before he can say anything else about this. I don't want to talk about my mother.

He pulls my blanket over me. "Okay. Sleep."

**12.**

He pulls my blanket out of his backpack. "Okay, breathe, it's okay."

I heave in the school courtyard, spilling the contents of my stomach. He grimaces and pulls me back, down onto the grass, away. 

"Don't leave."

"I won't leave."

**13.**

"I'm not leaving," he says, standing in front of the door. I'm shaking.

"Move. Move. Get out of my way." I shove into him, but he's stronger than me. He grabs me by my shoulder. 

"Stop it. Come here." He lifts me, and I try to swing my fists at him. I'm red. I'm red and orange and I just want him to leave. He grabs my wrists, holding me still. His hands are blue. 

"Come here. It's alright."

**14.**

"Come here, it's alright." I squeeze my eyes shut, trying to feign safety. I can't figure out what color I am right now. "We'll get ice cream after this. It'll be better. Nobody will hit you. You're safe now." He squeezes me gently around the ribs. "Maybe we can get out of here soon. You can sleep at my house with your blanket. I won't leave. Come here. It's alright."


End file.
